


Heat Stroke

by Barb G (troutkitty), Ophelia Coelridge (daemonluna)



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-17
Updated: 2003-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:34:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G, https://archiveofourown.org/users/daemonluna/pseuds/Ophelia%20Coelridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As close to HCL fluff as we get. It is too hot for young William and Joseph to sleep. Whatever shall they do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Stroke

> "Curiously enough, the only thing that went through the mind of the bowl of petunias as it fell was Oh no, not again. Many people have speculated that if we knew exactly why the bowl of petunias had thought that we would know a lot more about the universe than we do now."  
>         -The late Douglas Adams, _The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy_

Vancouver in August is a bitch. The air is thick and soupy, almost too thick to breathe. And maybe, just maybe, Billy admits, he'd be cooler if Joe weren't pressed heavy up against him, mostly asleep and breathing hoarsely through his mouth.

"Joe, I can't _breathe_."

"Quit smoking then, fucking get more exercise," Joe mumbled.

"Asshole. It's too fucking hot for both of us to be on the bed."

"You weren't saying that an hour ago."

"I was... distracted then."

"Or an hour and a half ago, or two hours ago, or..."

"Two hours ago I was distracted all by myself, no fucking thanks to you! Joe, I'm sticking to the fucking sheets."

"Move then."

"No, why don't _you_ move."

"Fuck that, _I'm_ not moving."

"Neither am I."

"Fuck."

So Billy throws off the sheet in disgust and naked, sweaty Joe takes its place, which, strangely enough only makes the situation worse. They're hot and sweaty and sticking together, and while the whole sweat-slick thing is... intriguing, it's just too fucking hot to move.

"Get off me."

"No."

"Get off me."

"No."

"Get off me, you fuckhead."

"Sweet talk won't help you any, Bill."

"I'm fucking dying here, Joe!"

Joe gets off him first; Billy doesn't have to push him away. Victory in small doses. Joe pulls on his jeans, and heads for the open window.

"Whatcha doing, Joe?"

He looks to Billy and says, "I just can't fucking live without you," and jumps.

The metal clatters as he lands on the fire escape. "You coming out or what?" Joe calls.

"Fucking brilliant," Billy shakes his head, but struggles back into jeans and a t-shirt, grabs two beers from the fridge, and climbs out the window. At least out there the air is moving, and it's cool enough to breath.

And at last, Joe's finally shut the fuck up, just leans on the railing, dripping beer bottle held against his face, and lets the faint breath of a breeze cool the sweat from his bare chest. Billy doesn't say anything either, just slouches back against the windowframe and watches the condensation drip down the side of Joe's face.

He can almost taste the salt and smoke of Joe's skin and the faintly metallic bite of the sweating bottle. But he doesn't move, resists the urge to run his tongue up Joe's throat and across his jaw, just watches. Joe's eyes are closed. Billy wonders briefly if he's drifted off, but then he speaks.

"You wanna another one?" Joe holds up the empty bottle without turning.

"Yeah."

"Get me one too, why dontcha?"

"You're such a prick," Billy says mildly, but Joe reaches out and brushes a hand possessively across Billy's shoulderblades as he turns to climb back through the window. And Billy's fucking glad that all Joe's asking for is another beer, because if he'd told him the two of them were going to jump, Billy'd be the first one to climb the railing.

When he comes back with the beer, Joe pulls him down to sit beside him, and rests his head on Billy's thigh. Billy plays with Joe's hair, sharing another smoke. Joe, sitting up, sacrifices the chill of his beer to roll it against Billy's bony back.

Billy arches back against the sweating bottle like a petted cat, and Joe leans forward, arms linked loosely around Billy's neck, his bare chest sticking to Billy's damp T-shirt. The contrast between fast-dissipating chill of the condensation from the beer bottle and Joe's skin fever-hot to the touch through the thin cotton makes him shiver.

Billy's legs fall casually apart like the cat's. Joe's hand moves down the light dusting of hair on his lower belly, Billy sucks in his stomach, doesn't make a sound. Joe cups him over his jeans; Billy shudders under him. "It's been a long time since I made you come in your pants, Billiam."

Billy stretches lazily against him. Joe rests his chin on Billy's shoulder, tucked into the crook of his neck, Billy's stubbled cheek rough against his own. Joe's hands are pale and blurred in the moonlight against the darker shadows of Billy's jeans, damp with sweat and sex.

And there's absolutely no hurry, like it could last all night. Joe hisses in his ear, but the words wash over him. His stomach muscles clench, but Joe keeps up with his lazy stroking. Most of the time he doesn't even move his hand, it's just over Billy, holding him.

"You're... fucking _teasing_... me," Billy gasps out finally, words escaping between deep breaths of muggy air sucked in as if he were drowning. Joe merely laughs, a deep smokey chuckle, and nips at his neck, wet slide of tongue and sharp edge of teeth over corded tendons.

Joe moves his hand so that just his fingertips touch Billy's jeans, and the sudden rush of blood makes Billy dizzy. The night air is cool against the soaked denim. And Joe laughs, ignoring the way Billy jerks trying to get his hand back. "Ah, ah, ah. Don't be greedy."

"You _asshole_ ," Billy gasps, and lets his head fall back against Joe's bare shoulder. He turns his head and licks a careful, deliberate line up and across Joe's throat, teeth scraping against his windpipe, and has the satisfaction of feeling Joe shudder beneath him.

He reaches down to do it himself. Joe catches his hand; Billy uses the other one. Joe catches that one too. Billy shifts, knowing Joe is as hard as he is and the contact makes Joe suck in his breath as Billy pulls away. Joe tackles him and they roll across the small fire escape.

"No, you don't," Joe snaps.

"The fuck I won't," Billy growls back, pulling one wrist free. He undoes his jeans and his hand on himself is a pure rush, and Joe over him only made it better.

Joe's hand is tight on his wrist, nail sharp against the skin. Billy pushes back against Joe's grip, testing, but doesn't protest when Joe grabs his other wrist, pulls his hands up and pins them above his head with one hand, and fumbles with the fly of his own jeans with the other.

"Took you fucking long enough," Billy says huskily, tongue slipping out to wet dry lips. The rusted grid of the fire escape digs into his back, metal still sun-warm to the touch.

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Joe replies. Billy notes with no small amount of satisfaction that Joe's voice is as rough as his own, and his breath hitches in his throat every bit as quickly.

Joe's hot against his skin, and it's fucking weird out in the open. Three o'clock in the morning. The warehouse across the street is dark, but they're only four stories up. They're still slick from earlier that night; Joe fits inside him easily. Oh, god. Billy squeezes his eyes shut. He's going to humiliate himself and come without Joe even touching him, right into Mrs. Dombroski's prized herb garden on the next level.

Joe isn't on anything, and Billy's own control isn't any better. "What are you waiting for?" Joe snaps. Or would have if he could breathe properly.

Fuck. Everything's a pissing contest. "You first," Billy manages.

"Fucking pushy, Bill," Joe gasps out. He moves his hands down to Billy's hips, sweat-slick to the touch, calloused thumbs fitting perfectly right below his hipbones as if they belonged there, pulling him up against him so that they move together, both at once.

And the fire escape rattles harder. Billy touches his cock, feels it jump, and the tightness in his stomach is too much. He comes, shuddering, and Joe's right against him.

Both of them hear the crash as a flower pot lands on a parked car below them.

"Fuck," Billy says, when he can breathe again. Joe pulls him back through the window.

"They'll never know it was us," he says confidently, sprawled out across the bed.

Billy settles next to him, lying perpendicular with his head on Joe's stomach. "That was our flowerpot, Joe."

"So?"

"It had, uh, pot _in_ it. Growing."

"Shit," Joe says solemnly.

"Yeah," Billy agrees.

"Wasn't very good pot," Joe says finally, after a moment of silence.

"Kinda straggly. I think it was dying," Billy says seriously.

"Let it go, Bill. No way it could have survived that fall. It's definitely fucking dead now," Joe says with every evidence of solemnity.

"Yeah, definitely dead," Billy echoes mournfully.

And when Joe starts to laugh, Billy can't help but join in.

"Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck."

"Y'know what?"

"What?"

"It's a good thing the bathroom's full of it."


End file.
